In Your Hands
by BoffinPenwings
Summary: The aftermath of Eurus' game has left a lot of cracks in everyone involved. There are consequences that cannot be ignored, and wounds that must be healed. Sherlock, Molly and Mycroft will deal with things that cannot be set aside so easily.
1. Chapter 1 - A Childhood, Lost

It had been surprisingly easy. After the rescue, John wanted nothing more than getting to Rosie, and Sherlock made sure the team that would get them back from Musgrave Manor to London would take them separate ways. He assured John he would be okay, send his love to Rosie and got into the black car that would take him to his place —221 B Baker Street. With Greg in charge of Mycroft, John on his way to Rosie and Mrs. Hudson spending a couple of days with her sister (which everyone thought was best after the bombing), he would be free to be alone with his mind.

There were too many things to process, too much new information to reconfigure. Surprisingly so, it was not his head that was thumping, but his heart. With eyes closed, he found himself reliving all sorts of old, repressed memories: children running around in Musgrave. Playing hide and seek with Victor. Victor's mom's hands, while taking them both somewhere. Eurus singing other childish tunes, running in circles around him. Eurus playing her violin while he listened, sitting between a couple of stuffed animals. Mycroft discovering the reddish-purple marks in his arms, where his sister had pressed some rope too hard during a "game". Eurus whispering "I'll cut you… I'll see your heart beating… I will" through the locked door in her room whenever he passed in front of it, as if she could see him. Victor's mom distraught in their living room.

He found himself in front of the 221 B door sooner than he thought. Although the place was devastated, the explosion had been confined to the living room and part of the kitchen. He needed the familiarity of his bedroom, even when the flat was full of scattered objects and missing its front windows. He can still feel the pungent, acrid smell of burned fabrics and explosives when he opened the door. He tried to filter that out, as well as the debris that populated the floor. He had to jump some unidentified objects in the way to his bedroom, and finally closed that door, as if that could put the whole ordeal behind him. The last thing he knew was that he plummeted, face first, to his bed. After that, it was all a welcome, numbing blackness.

* * *

So… This is my first published fanfic EVER. I've been reading a lot of fan fiction during the last two years, but this is the first "plot bunny" that I cannot ignore. I've already plotted the idea and have outlined the chapters —There will be 8; some are shorter, like this one… Some are longer— so this is on its way to be completed (and if I find myself unable to do so, I'll throw here the outlines so you won't wonder what would have happened if I have ever finished it, ha).

I'm not a native English speaker and this hasn't been beta-ed, so any mistakes are my own. If you liked it, please comment, everything is really appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2 - A Hard Day's Afternoon

I wondered a lot why was Molly so reluctant to talk with Sherlock over the phone, and why she looked so sad/tired… So this chapter (which wasn't really planned in the original set, as it started as the Chapter 2 intro) is my go on that subject.

* * *

Saying it has been a difficult day was, at best, an understatement. She had an early shift with an unexpected load of desk work, and a throbbing headache pressing her temples. When she finally got out of her desk and tried to start the first autopsy of the day, she discovered that the file was making a dent in her spirit.

Molly is as professional as the best of the field. However, she is also a human being. A sensible, sensitive one. She usually has a good reserve of calm and professional distance when looking at cases; she could even use a big dose of dark, morbid humour. Despite all of this, she sometimes finds herself musing too much about the lives that ended before they arrived in her hands, especially when she has been having a rough personal time. She had been passing almost all her free time babysitting lately (for Rosie or for Sherlock, and it was hard to tell which one was more difficult) and grieving for Mary —it was so hard to lose a close friend when you've had her for such a short time…

This case should have been a simple one —a woman in her late 20's, probable cause of death: heroin OD—, but considering her last few months, and her increasing worry about Sherlock, she could feel how there was a growing undercurrent of anger boiling beneath her skin. So much life wasted… The woman in the slate might have felt isolated, and she was so young… Did she have anyone who cared for her? Was anyone's heart shattered for her untimely demise? Any friends? A family? What universe would exist no more because of this OD?

She was projecting her grief and worries all over this case, of course. She made a pause to compose herself and separate her professional self from her personal life. This woman was not responsible for her missing Mary's laugh and conversations, or for the multiple times she has worried about Sherlock Holmes in the last year alone. Molly could remember the time when all she could feel for him was awe, when she was not even able to articulate her thoughts in front of him. A lot of water had run under that bridge —she had helped him fake his death, they had become close friends, and she even felt capable of getting over him… Until he came back, invited her to solve crimes for a day, and then she compared her Tom with him during the Watson's wedding. Just as she knew she was hoping for more than Tom would ever give her, he came into the lab, escorted by John and Mary, high as a kite and all rudeness again. And less than a year after, he almost OD'd again. Twice.

Molly sighed and went to get some ibuprofen. This state of mind wasn't helping her, and the headache was getting worse. Took some minutes to calm down, and got back to work. After she finished the autopsy, she fled to her home as soon as possible. She needed sanctuary, a hot cup of tea and being by herself just for tonight.


	3. Chapter 3 - Be Careful What You Wish For

**Author's note:** Oh, dears. I'm so, so sorry for all the angst that is coming in this chapter… It has been the most difficult to write. I hate to emotionally torture Molls, but I had to explore this. Therefore, the title of this chapter applies to our girl as well as to the author —I wanted to explore this, but there was so much raw emotion… So, be warned: it gets darker before dawn.

* * *

The silence on the line after she said it was nothing compared to the numbness she felt growing inside her. The inner voice judging her was becoming louder after the second time she asked: "Sherlock?" but it got worse after she noticed the call had ended, just like that —no explanations, no further interaction. She was played again, she knew it. He must have been high and trying to show off with someone. What else would he want to get from her?

She was so, so tired of giving time, space, friendship, help… love, to that bottomless pit named Sherlock Holmes. When she met him, she thought he was just oblivious to her advances. After the horrid scene during the Christmas party, so many years ago, she finally stood up for herself and noticed he was capable of being… probably not nice, but at least respectful and accountable for his offenses. Then she helped him fake his suicide, even accepting him in her flat at the time. After that, he came back and have been friendly, even sweet with her, but she was engaged to Tom. Then everything has spiralled down and out of control with him.

It was easier to live with that early certainty —him being a mindless man-child who couldn't care less about other people's well-being– than this. She was aware now that he could respond emotionally to others, that he could be devastated —Oh, God, she remembered his face when he received John's letter after Mary's death, the horrible feelings creeping inside her for being the messenger… But that was exactly the point. She was capable of tuning with his feelings and she worried about him being harmed, but the last months have been a constant demonstration of how much he was her absolute opposite in this, so centred in what he needed and how she would be there for him, but never giving a thought about the effects he had in her. Where he had been "mindless" in their first years, now she can read "cruel" written all over this time.

Molly felt the hot tears streaming down her cheeks, without any intention of stopping them. Her chest was tight and heavy. "So stupid. So, so stupid. 'Say it first'. This was just me being silly again! What did I win? WHAT?!". Nobody would imagine Molly Hooper raging. She suddenly felt so self-conscious about that… About her, manipulating Sherlock to say he loved her "like you mean it", such a pyrrhic victory. About her right now, crying over her exposed heart and how she could no longer hide herself behind the alibi of just being a good, generous friend. That was what she had been saying to everyone (including herself), and what she still believed to be true until… 10 minutes ago. She found herself chuckling, and then laughing, while still crying. Utter ridiculous.

Euros was fascinated by the results of this experiment: in one screen, Sherlock was smashing a coffin with his bare hands. In the other, Molly Hooper had gone from sobbing to screaming to be convulsed with laughter. Such a show… Those complicated, little emotions. She couldn't get how they allowed themselves to lose control to such extent. She disconnected Doctor Hooper's streaming after watching her left the kitchen and getting to her bedroom. Well, on to the next experiment. Her little brother should be getting a grip right now, and they were still missing the most interesting parts of the ride…


	4. Chapter 4 - A Nasty, Little Habit

After all the storm, Molly wakes up with a terrible headache (again) and somebody ringing her doorbell. She is being "kindly invited"… Or shall we say "summoned"?

* * *

She felt herself jumping after the doorbell rang. It suddenly felt so loud… Her face was puffy, and her nose stuffed. The headache was starting to pulse in her temples. "It is like having the worst cold ever, without the emotional stability". Yes, her sense of humour was starting to come back. Molly could remember everything from that dreadful phone call, and how she cried, laughed and cried again herself to bed. "To fall asleep crying like a teenager, for Sherlock Holmes: check. Hope he won't ask that on a future call". She had to stop those self-deprecating jokes. Really, she should. But she also know that being able of laughing a little was her first response to any shock since always…

The doorbell rang again. Whoever it was wasn't taking a 'no' for an answer, even when it was pretty evident there was nobody at home. Well at least, nobody in the right state of mind to answer the door in a civil way. What time was it? Her damned mobile (and its really useful clock) was still in the kitchen. Sod it. She would have to go there anyway, even without turning the lights on, even if it was just to get some water so she wouldn't choke with ibuprofen.

Bloody 4 A.M., if her phone isn't as mad as the person at the door. "Mad person at the door" is a good indicator of a Holmes. However, the ring was too polite to be Sherlock (and he would already be inside, if she hadn't opened the door at the first attempt… He had made his way inside her home a couple of times before). But… Mycroft? He was not the kind of person who would appear in the front door of anybody's house in the middle of the night, unless it was to make that person disappear. Who could it be? "Curiosity killed the cat, Molly". She could still hear Ma's voice, trying to stop her from climbing the old dresser. "Yes, but the cat always knew better than anybody!" was her usual response. Well, maybe the person on the other side was a neighbor who had lost their keys… Or maybe they have given up, finally.

The doorbell rang, again. "Well, so much for giving up". Molly sighed, drank the rest of the glass of water and finally turned the lights on. Probably, solid 15 minutes since the first ring. The matter was not urgent, then… but couldn't be left for later. This was as intriguing as you could find at this time of the day. She got closer to the door, threading lightly. As soon as she could look out from the peephole, she found a perfectly dressed man standing outside, waiting patiently. His stance automatically made her think of an agent in a Bond movie —thin and tall, but muscular; not a hair out of its place, grey suit, dark tie, white shirt. So Mycroft it was… but he sent a minion.

What was it with the Holmes brothers today? Was Mycroft thinking that kidnapping her was a good way to force her to talk to Sherlock again? Was she grounded? Would he take her out of the country because she had confessed her love to Sherlock?

Her giggles gave her away. "Doctor Hooper, please open the door". "Doctor Hooper" was the final confirmation: this was a Mycroft thing. Well, she had a thing or two she could tell him… About Sherlock, about sending a minion to search for her at this ridiculous hours of the… night? Morning? Whatever. She had to have a couple of words with him about that nasty little habit of the Holmes, of using people at their will and then disposing them; of believing they were the only important people in the whole world. Oh, yes, Mycroft Holmes would find out that Dr. Molly Hooper has a temper and a spine. Just wait and see.

She opened the door, and surprised the man waiting for her outside by just responding: "Where is the car? You can tell Mr. Holmes I'm going. And that he will have a really interesting conversation". He walked her to where the black limo was parked, and drove without saying a word.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ok, I had loads of work this week, but we finally have a chapter! I know that was not the Holmes you were waiting for, but it will worth the wait (well, I hope so). The next chapter is mostly Mycroft-centric, so be warned. I hope to have it finished and up on Wednesday, so let's cross our fingers.


	5. Chapter 5 - Checkmate

The meeting with Mycroft doesn't go as Molly would have thought. Getting to know the Holmes siblings better has never been an easy task.

* * *

Mycroft had given up playing chess twice in his life. The first, just after Eurus beat him in a gruesome and surprising way, just a month or two before Victor Trevor's vanishing. He remembers clearly that mix of surprise, humiliation… and amazement. He had been able to win while playing with little Sherlock every single time (it was a piece of cake, as his little brother got bored and distracted after a very short time), but his sister, with her unusual serenity and focus, became an interesting opponent quite early. She was unpredictable, and grew fast and ruthless at a steady pace. Their last time playing together was a _blitzkrieg_ , where she took him by surprise and won in just 12 moves.

After she was taken away, Uncle Rudy started inviting him to his office, to play chess. That time was their private space, with slow moves and thoughtful moments, a space to help him transitioning into an adult, after watching the last pieces of his childhood consumed within Musgrave Manor. It was during one of this chess games that Uncle Rudy offered him a job, "suitable for a young man of such a notable intelligence and discrete ways". He stopped playing after he died, and hadn't thought about the game for years… Until this evening.

During their childhood, he had been mesmerized and terrified at the same time by Eurus' cunning intelligence. He could only predict some of her actions, and never the worst ones. This day was just a reminder of all the anxiety he felt then, watching every little step his siblings took, while calculating which one would have terrible consequences. At this moment, he felt that his entire adult life consisted of that, exactly —getting constant reports about Sherrinford, checking up on Sherlock all the time, covering up his many problems to ease their parents, after all they had endured…

It was just today when he saw the card castle he built to keep everyone safe crumbling down in front of his eyes. Eurus rose, as a mythical power, to chase him back. Now it was time to confront the consequences. Checkmate.

* * *

Molly was surprised to arrive at a country manor, just in the outskirts of London. She had met Mycroft before a couple of times, just after The Fall, but never in such a location. It certainly was the sort of place you could associate a couple of public school siblings with posh sounding names. God, she was angry and petty. For the first time in years, she was not willing to be patient and forgiving. She could feel the rage becoming determination when she jumped out of the black car and stormed to the front door.

She found a surprisingly comforting space. Even when everything seemed old and grandiose, it was not a space she could relate to the office where Mycroft had always been when he wanted to talk: instead of polished concrete, there was wood; familial portraits instead of an oversized oil painting of Her Majesty; warm lights completed the scene as much as the usual white lights completed the atmosphere there. The guard who brought her here had finally reached her. "This way, please, Doctor Hooper".

They got into a room with a gigantic dining table in one extreme, and a small cozy sitting area in the other. There, sitting in a leather couch, in front of the dim light of the fireplace, was Mycroft Holmes.

He wasn't wearing his usual suit. He was still in his shoes, trousers and shirt, but he was missing the tie, waistcoat and jacket that —now she knew— were so essential to him. He had unbuttoned the neck of his shirt, and had a blanket thrown over his shoulders. He seemed lost in his thoughts, eyes fixed in the fire. Molly couldn't get herself to talk first, just walked, silently, to stand in front of the man who usually seemed detached and scary, but right now appeared as human as it was possible.

When Mycroft noticed her, he looked her directly and gave her a dreary smile. "Welcome, Doctor Hooper. I know I'm asking too much of you by making you come at this time of the day, and after the last… events. But I believe you deserve an explanation as much as an apology. I am only suitable to offer you the first one, as it is my entire responsibility to do so. I know you have been wronged and have all the right to despise the Holmes siblings at the moment, yet I must put a series of facts to your consideration, in order to better explain the events that took place yesterday. Would you allow me to? Please, take a seat."

Molly gave up her hostility. With a sigh, she sat down and prepared herself to listen to whatever Mycroft would have to tell her. She couldn't even imagine half of it. He started by stating the obvious: they had been in an operation during last day's events. But then the Holmes' family tale unraveled: the secret sister, the burnt down childhood manor and the missing childhood friend, even the explosion of 221 B she hadn't heard about yet. Eurus escaping twice to get in touch with Sherlock and his "relatives". "She posed as John's new therapist. Likely, that is how she knew you existed and got a notion of your relationship with Sherlock: she witnessed all the show Sherlock put up for John's sake during the Culverton Smith case, as well as your involvement in it. As a master manipulator, she read all the cues: John was oblivious of your closeness to Sherlock, while you accepted Sherlock's plans without a question. Most probably, your concern for him was written all over your face". Molly felt how her cheeks started burning.

He made the fast recount of the whole ordeal: The Governor and his wife (and admitted how sick it made him to think about killing that man directly); the Garrideb brothers, the decision to keep John or him… and the room with the coffin. Sherlock's face when he understood who the chosen victim was. The way his face had changed when he said "I love you" for the second time, and then his reaction when he learned that Eurus had been playing him and that he hurt Molly for nothing: smashing the coffin, bare-handed. Talking about "vivisection". Yes, she got the feeling.

That was the point where their narratives collided, then. She was shocked to hear about the threat over her flat, however false it was; and it felt worse when she knew that it had all been false, all for nothing. She felt a little sorry for herself, a little sorry for this Mycroft… and yes, even when she had been so angry earlier, sorry for Sherlock.

Mycroft closed the tale masterfully. Sherlock and John had had the worst part, but they were physically fine. Lestrade has checked on them and then came to inform him and check over him, he had left just an hour ago. John had been trapped in a well, exactly like Victor Trevor, Sherlock's childhood friend. As a matter of fact, John had found some bones… Children's bones. A skull, some long bones, that could match Victor Trevor's. The sole idea sent chills over Molly's spine.

He asked as a mere formality. "That family deserves some sort of closure, Dr. Hooper. I know I'm asking too much from you, but I also know we can trust you. You have the heart and the brains to get this done in a timely manner". She would have volunteered nonetheless.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** A lot earlier than I thought! I resisted the temptation to divide this into two chapters, just to maintain the promised chapter count… Writing this, I've just noticed the tremendous amount of headcanons I had grown over the years (and they became even worse with this last season), specially about these two. I loved writing them together, as the show rarely made them interact (and I imagined Mycroft leaving the part he knows would impact Molls more deeply until the very end, because that's what he does… Eurus is not the only master manipulator in that family).

I hope you are still enjoying this! Next chapter, we go back to the one Holmes we've been neglecting for the past 4!


	6. Chapter 6 - After the Shipwreck

Sherlock wakes up to the fact that many of the relationships he had, as he had known them, have changed irremediably… And to the physical consequences of his actions.

* * *

It must be the tension in his back what woke him up from a night of sleep that felt thick and pitch black, as tar. He winces at the light that is coming through the drapes. Well, it's not just his back, but his whole body that reminds him the events of the day before. He just turned in the bed, but stood laying down. Usually, he was able to fight all that back with pure determination: "It's just transport". But not this time. All of a sudden, he felt too old for this —he had just finished recovering after the Smith case, which built up over the drug abuse that started after Magnussen, which was just the final point after a previous lengthy recovery at the hospital, after being shot… by Mary. Oh, God, he missed her. She had traded his appoint in Samarra for hers, in the end, but that does not mean that him hadn't been feeling himself too close to death lately.

The night he spent walking with his sister, when she posed as Faith, came to mind. How many of his deductions about her had been built and predicted by her, and which ones had hit the mark? Self-harm marks, suicidal, living in isolation, no human contact, no visitors. She cut herself as a child, now he knows. Living in a closed cell, in an island prison just taken out of one of those spy movies John was so keen on. Was she suicidal? What would have happened if he was so high that he couldn't spot the gun in her purse? Would she have killed herself? Had she planned another death that night, one he avoided by walking out with her? He even took her for fish and chips. She had liked him… And he felt strangely comfortable with her. They had shared jokes. She had a twisted sense of humour, and she detected the cracks that sentiment made in his deductions. "You think sweetly". "You are nicer than anyone". He shook his head, tried to recompose and sat up in the bed.

He decided to make an inventory of his physical state, even if it was just to take his mind out of racing in circles around every single bit of information he had gotten the day before. Head: a little heavy, with some pounding in the temples. Nothing to worry about. His face felt stiff, and his jaw was tight. Shook his head again and decided to put his feet down to the floor. His clothes were crumpled after being wear for more than 30 hours, and used for sleeping. Before standing up, he rolled his head, softly, just to release some tension from his neck and his upper back.

As soon as he stood in front of his wardrobe and tried to unbutton his shirt, he found out that his hands were in a pretty rough shape. His fingers were swollen, and he could hardly bend the 5th finger on both hands, as well as the 4th in his right hand. The ulnar border of his hands was reddish, but the hypothenar eminence had already started to show purple spots, and it was worse on his dominant one. "Probable damage to the muscular structure, as well as the superficial tissue. I don't think any bones are broken, though". He also noticed a couple of splints under the skin of his left hand. It would be advisable to get those out, but his dominant hand was in no state to help with that, as it was a precision work. He looked at them as if they were not his own, almost fascinated by the amount of damage he had managed to make to them, inadvertently.

Of course. That happened when he smashed the coffin, after being forced to severe his ties with Molly Hooper. Yes, he was aware that asking her for those words mean that their relationship was damaged. Probably over. He had tiptoed around that fact (Molly's love for him) for a long time —after the deduction during that bloody Christmas party, most likely. Before that, he just thought she had a very useful crush on him, one he had played once and again on his favor. After deducing her outfit, her makeup and her gift, and watching her sorrowful face calling him out for "always saying such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always…" things changed. Even when he wasn't a man of sentiment, she has never been nothing but nice to him. He had known he had broken her heart at that exact moment, and he knew he would never allow himself to do that in the future.

She had become the only one (apart from his brother) who knew about The Fall. He found himself thinking about her whereabouts during his two years out, and came back to ask here on a "play date" (those had been Mycroft's words). She was the first woman he had invited to have chips, and that thought brought a sad smile to his face. She and his sister… Fish and chips was his go-to comfort food, a childish gesture, a peace offering. Molly had a boyfriend, though, and thus Sherlock decided to give a little step backwards. However, they grew closer, and became friends of sorts in a way that felt totally different from the excitement and the adrenaline and that "keeping me straight" thing that John was —she was the person he searched for to "rest his head". With John having his own domestic life, planning a wedding, and becoming increasingly less admiring of Sherlock, he found it easier each time to talk with Molly during any work he had in St. Bart's lab. He asked her about social clues. She was the first person who knew about him being John's best man, and helped him with a book recommendation or two. Just an innocent friendship, but such a haven… But then the 'relapse' happened.

It started as the easiest way to attract Magnussen's attention. However, he didn't imagine the effect that would cause in Molly. She wasn't supposed to find out in the lab… In his plan, she would have heard rumours, would have asked him and he would have dismissed it, downplaying its importance if necessary. She had been useful for confirmation, though. And he had learned that she was no longer engaged —information that he stored in a specific space of his mind, even when he wasn't really sure why. She had been so crossed about it…

He winced, as his mind got back to the task of unbuttoning with his damaged fingers. It took a lot of time, but he was stubborn. He should get a shower. Were the water pipes working after the explosion? His mind ran the simulation: water pipes might be working, but gas pipes must be off. So water, but freezing. After Serbia, he was grateful of whatever he could get. However, today he wasn't in the mood or state for that. He would prepare a bag and go to John's place, where he could have hot water, a good friend by his side… And little Rosie. Had his sister been that small? Had he? Seemed impossible, but they must have been that little, that innocent. Even Eurus should have been, at that point.

He decided to wear just comfortable, easy to put clothes, the kind that he used to sulk around when he was in a bad mood… or to be undercover. Got undressed as fast as he could with his stiff hands, and dressed up in Shezzer's attire; it felt completely out of character, but he couldn't possibly use any of his suits or shirts with his hands in that state. Freezing water might be good for reducing the swelling, he thought. So, he walked to the bathroom, fighting the door and the faucet, and letting water flow freely. It stinged a little, but it also started numbing the worst of it. He closed his eyes. Images of yesterday came flooding through the doors of his mind palace: Moriarty's videos. Eurus' face in the screen. The touch of her hands, so thin and cold. The Governor shooting himself. Mycroft shaking, after the tension of having to kill a man with his own hands. Mycroft's face as he learned Sherlock would have to shoot either John or him. John's soldier stance. "We are soldiers today". John helping him stand up after the… vivisection. And Molly, crying in the screen but with a firm, commanding voice on the phone. He had known she loved him for years. Knowing that the constant care about her well-being, the need of amending things with her that accompanied him even in his drug induced delusions, and his constant worry about what she thought about him was also called "love" was what came as a complete surprise to him. To learn it at the same time he was damaging their relationship irreparably…

The ping of his phone took him out from his thoughts. Mycroft had sent a message. "Talked with Dr. Hooper. She is taking care of Victor. Should pay a visit". Big Brother had been watching over him, as always. He shook his hands dry and prepared to have a terribly uncomfortable time, again.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This chapter owes so much to the wonderful transcripts of Transcripts by Ariane DeVere ( .com). As for the anatomical references, I had to search for them, just because I didn't think Sherlock's mind would be thinking about "little fingers" and "outer border of hands" or "lower side of the palm, below the pinky" (that's why I numbered the fingers and what "ulnar border" and "hypotenar eminence" mean, so I learned something new). Feel free to comment, every review is appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7 - Holding Together

Coming to closure with all these events will take time. Now Sherlock finds himself lost for much needed words to comfort those people he has find increasingly important after Sherrinford. Things might need some effort.

 **Trigger warning:** brief mention of Victor Trevor's remains. A glimpse, but better safe than sorry.

* * *

Daylight made the level of destruction in 221 B visible. Sherlock took a couple of minutes to look around and see the burnt walls, many of his material possessions scattered around and covered in ashes. The flat was cold, as the windows were broken during their almost miraculous scape. He tried to close the zipper of the hoodie he was wearing, but after fighting again with the precision needed for such a simple task, he left it as is and hurried to get a cab. As soon as he put his foot in the sidewalk and raised a finger, one materialized… Mycroft again, playing Big Brother. "To St. Bart's, please".

He sprawled all over the back seat. As much as he would love not to use his hands, he needed to know how his brother was, and what had he talked about with Molly.

"On my way to see her. How are you? SH"

"Been better, brother mine. In full health. Working from home today. MH"

It was probably the first time in Mycroft's adult life that he decided to "work from home". Sherlock was aware that his brother rarely stopped working altogether (wherever he was), but staying away from saving England from itself was… Well, probably a lot to think about right now. Maybe he should go pay him a visit… Later. One difficult step after the other. "Still soldiers", he thought. Maybe it was best just to call Mycroft and stop torturing his hands altogether.

— You spoke to Molly.

— Hello, dear brother. As a matter of fact, yes. I took the liberty to invite her here, in order to check up on her, and to ask for her help and discretion in one very delicate matter…

— Victor.

— Yes, indeed. She is the only person whom I'd trust with such a delicate situation. She has proved herself extensively, hasn't she? —Mycroft's voice was almost mellow now. Yes, they were the ones who handled The Fall, and Mycroft was aware of her before, since… That Christmas. Not only had he insulted her, but also took her out of the party to identify fake Irene's body. And here he goes, to ask too much of her again after causing her considerable emotional distress…

— Are you still there, Sherlock? —Mycroft's voice took him out of his thoughts.

— Yes, yes. Did you…?

— Yes, brother mine. I explained the whole story to her. It was the least I could do, as an attention for all the pains I've caused. I guess it is about time to notify our parents too… —There was a hint of sadness on his voice. Their family had never been a common, happy one, but this was well beyond anything Sherlock could have imagined.

— Mycroft…

— Yes, brother?

— Take care of yourself. —What else could he say that would make sense? It took all this craziness just to know how deeply Mycroft cared, in his own twisted, overbearing way. Going from their usual 'love-hate' relationship to anything else would take some time…

— I'll certainly do, brother mine. Do the same. And send my regards to Doctor Hooper.

— I will.

After the call ended, Sherlock just dropped the phone in his lap and closed his eyes. He started having flashbacks again –Now, one of Moriarty parroting on video. Had his sister saved him from exile, just to bring him back to play? He felt a shiver with that thought, and opened back his eyes.

He was just minutes away from Bart's. He was dreading the moment of facing Molly Hooper. Even knowing that Mycroft had already explained yesterday's events to her, it was terrible to imagine what truth he would have to see in her eyes.

Their relationship had grown slowly, in the margins of the pages that many others would record from his biography. Theirs was a friendship that had happened mostly when they were on their own, was it working on the morgue, making experiments in the lab, hiding away and planning schemes in her flat, during his hospital stay after he was shot. She was still a little angry with him, and worried, during that time. She learned to be more direct, straightforward, even blunt when she had to say important things to him. He personally felt that as an evolution of their bond –Molly Hooper was not going to break in his hands anymore. Then, Eurus happened.

The cab arrived before he could notice it, and he descended, absentmindedly. For the first time in decades, he didn't have a plan or a prepared speech for the occasion. His long strides drove him almost automatically to the morgue, but he hesitated in front of the door. When he pushed a silently as he could (with his shoulder, the path of least resistance being in that state), he had a glimpse of Molly, in full working stance, her hair pulled back in a loose pony tail, and wearing protective glasses. Her concentration was evident in her facial features, as well as the lack of sleep. Most probably, she had also cried during the night.

Sherlock didn't even had time to feel guilty about that, as he noticed what she was working into —she has holding a small skull, very carefully. It was so small… Not older than five or six. Suddenly, Victor's face came flashing through: Redbeard. He couldn't remember his voice. He felt himself shudder. His childhood best friend, lost twice —once by Eurus' works, and then in his own mind. "Every choice you ever made; every path you've ever taken – the man you are today... is your memory of Eurus… Sorry, brother mine". Mycroft's voice came again to him, spoken softly. He could see him coming out of the shadows of his Mind Palace, taking Billy from the mantelpiece of the fireplace and delivering it to him. When he received it, it was obviously a younger, smaller skull. He always thought Billy was a morbid joke about his Shakespeare love as well as his drug addiction, "William, you will be dead soon if you keep doing this!". This new layer of meaning was physically painful.

He didn't notice he was moaning until he felt someone holding him by the arms. As he opened his eyes, he found the face of Molly Hooper looking sternly at him. She is the person holding him together right now, as she has been many times before. He can't find the words, not yet. She is here, she is safe. He is a bastard, but he is a broken bastard, hold together by the grip of Molly's hands.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Sorry about the delay. Loads of work and a couple of hard chapters (this one and the next are being hell to write… They need time and a clear head to work fine, so I was in pressing need of a couple of quiet hours just to get to this).

We are reaching our climax, so hold on.


	8. Chapter 8 - Healing Takes Time

Finally, Sherlock and Molly meet eye to eye…

* * *

Molly was really focused on the task. Working on such an old case, with a body that had stayed in a humid space for so long was not an easy task, even more when she had to search for any source of DNA that would help getting the final confirmation of the identity of this small body. She had already confirmed that it corresponded to a boy, around 5-6 years old. Not much was left of him, and after making all the anthropometric annotations and getting the samples that should be contrasted with the Trevor's family ones (Mycroft promised he would oversee getting them), she started analyzing the bones and fragments to find if any of the story could be told by them.

She had already checked out the photos of the well where they were found, and couldn't help to feel a chill down her spine both for the little kid and for John. If John Watson, an adult man and an army veteran might found the experience traumatic, it must have been worse for a little child, who was probably alive too when he descended there. She hadn't gotten the dental record yet —it was an ancient cold case, and Greg was being really helpful with that, considering that he had also slept just a couple of hours before starting this morning…

There was a noise at the door. Molly thought about raising her head, but she was trying to get the last data about the skull… And was almost certain that the person who was there, without talking, was a certain someone she wasn't too keen on seeing right now. She got a look through the corner of her eye just to confirm it, but she got so much more information that what she was aiming for.

The tall, skinny figure of the detective was leaning on the door, but his looks were almost the same as the time John and Mary brought him to the lab, to make him "pee in a jar" —matted hair, paler than usual, dark circles around his eyes, and that awful combination of an old t-shirt, a hoodie, and old tracksuit bottoms. His eyes were unfocused, and he wasn't aware that she had stopped working and started looking at him. Was he high again? No… There was something different, a weariness, an unnerving distance in his gaze. She removed her surgical mask while quietly observing.

Molly had to admit that she was partly relieved to see him. She could also feel how her face was getting warmer just by having him near so soon after the awful night and that stupid phone call. She was still angry, her stomach still twitched when she thought of talking with Sherlock… But when he started whimpering softly, and then the intensity of his groaning increased… She had to make sure he was okay, and walked to him, gripping his arms while calling him out.

— Sherlock? Sherlock? Can you hear me?

His face suddenly softened, and his eyes came back to life. He was looking at her with a lost expression. She became suddenly conscious of how tired, how fragile he appeared right now.

— Molly…

— Come on, Sherlock. Sit down. You look as if you can lose your footing in any moment… —Molly guided him to a chair, while still holding him by an elbow, just as you would do with someone old and brittle.

Sherlock sat down and looked at Molly. It was not his usual way of looking at her —the last time his eyes were as soft as now, was when he had invited her to solve crimes, before admitting she was someone else's fiancée… But there was also a glint of something else. For him, it was as if he was observing her for the first time: her small frame, the way her nose gave character to her face, her flushed cheekbones, those brown eyes, able to keep a warm look even through her justifiable anger… He was discovering the true meaning and extent of the words said on the phone. Yes, she loved him. And he was painfully aware of that right now: aware of the way she will always be there for him, but also of the perpetual faith he put in her, and how he has always assumed that Molly Hooper will be part of his life forever. He has seen all this before, but he observes these thoughts for the first time. It was so obvious, yet so dim-witted from him…

— Molly… I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry… —he just closed his eyes, defeated. He couldn't find any more words for her. Nothing else.

— Shhhh… Take it easy. —the words leave her lips almost involuntarily.

She knows she has every right to deny her mercy, to make him leave. However, all she can see right now, through his exhausted face, is a little child, not much older than the one she had just left in the slab, lost and scared and in pain, searching for his best friend. When he embraces her waist and clings to her, she cradles his head in her arms and pulls him closer to her chest. She can feel him sobbing and notices how her last defensive line comes tumbling down. She kisses his crown and strokes his curls softly… They stay like that for long minutes, until the sobs dissipate. Sherlock tries to stroke Molly's cheek, and she perceives something is not quite right with his touch.

— Sherlock… —she whispers— Let me see your hands. Please.

He inhales deeply and extends both hands to her, without looking her to the eyes. Molly observes, and that part of Mycroft's story comes back to her: "He smashed your… the coffin, bare handed, in a rage fit". It was true, then; not an embellishment, nor an exaggeration. Her medical instinct quickly assesses the situation, checks for movement and sensibility. Sherlock felt the twinging while she touches and flexes different zones, but doesn't complain. His face twitches a little more than he would like, though.

— Was this because…?

— Yes —he mutters, eyes closed. It was part of his penance, he was starting to admit to himself.

— I can't leave you like this. Let me… Just give me a couple of minutes.

She thinks of going to her office for a first aid kit, but this will need more supplies than the ones she has there. Thankfully, being nice to everyone has its payoffs, and she quickly convinces a nurse to get her some supplies: bandages, anti-inflammatory ointment, tweezers, antiseptic. He wouldn't need stitches, and there were no broken bones or any serious luxation… Such a relief —trying to get Sherlock to X-ray would be like bathing Toby. She smiled to herself with that thought. Yes, she was feeling better.

She came back to find Sherlock still sitting, eyes closed, still looking so vulnerable… It was so out of character for him; it can be unsettling. She approached without making any noise, crouched in front of him, took his right hand between hers, and started taking the splinters out with the tweezers. "This might hurt, sorry". Sherlock didn't answer —he had probably escaped to his Mind Palace, his usual dissociative state whenever he was deeply concentrated, under stress or suffering great pain, as she had learned when visiting him in the hospital. This last year had made her an expert on the matter.

She finished with the task faster than she thought she will. She uses some antiseptic over the larger gashes, and then carefully puts some anti-inflammatory ointment to help reducing the swelling. The act of wrapping his hands with bandages feels gentle and sad at the same time —it was not the first time she had to patch him up, but it was the first one after admitting that she loves him, the first one after realizing how broken he can be, how deeply he felt some things. It felt as if they were suddenly even, both having shown their fatal flaw to the other. She put his left hand —now also cured and bandaged— in his lap, and said softly:

— It is not OK, not yet. And it will take some time… but you will heal. We both will.

— Molly… —he came out of his trance and finally looked at her with those sorrowful eyes— I know I cannot ask this from you… but… is there any chance that you will find in yourself some forgiveness for me?

She looked at him, dead serious. Then, she smiled.

— Yes. I guess I will. Now the cat is out of the bag… And you know how I feel, as embarrassing as it is, as useless as it seems. It still hurts. I'd prefer we leave it like this for some days, Sherlock. We can talk about this after we have both rested a little, when water has reached its level…

— It… You… Your love is not useless, Molly Hooper. It never has been. I've been an insensitive, obnoxious prick with you. I promised myself a long time ago it would never happen again. I'm truly ashamed that I failed. You must know that you are one of the most important people in my life. I told you once: you do count. The feeling of having betrayed you… Of becoming despicable to your eyes… I'm not sure what use you would find to this, Molly Hooper, but it was true when I said it the second time… It still is: I love you. It might not be enough for you, as I'm not even sure what that means coming from a man like myself; but it is what I have.

Molly felt the tears running over her cheeks. She wasn't ready for this. Neither was he, surely. She would have to be the sensible one.

— Please, Sherlock… let it be for now. We can talk about this later. Please. Let me work this out, get my job done, get some sleep. We both need to process whatever this is, whatever has happened in the last 48 hours. You need to check up with John, with Mycroft… Let it be for now.

— I… I understand. Thank you, Molly. —he kissed her in the cheek, just a sweet, grateful peck. Then, he got up from the chair and walked out, fumbling with the door and his hurt hands. She wipes the tears and silently goes back to work.


	9. Chapter 9 - All the memories, old & new

_Ok, the last chapter. Never thought it would take a year to write —it was clear in my head, but life is a constant surprise (and, sometimes, a nuisance). I'd have to thank Ms. Adrienne Tyler, for making me notice that if I'm pushing people all day about writing their own stuff, then I should probably finish up writing mine. As "casting" for this chapter's OCs: Julianne Moore, and Domnhall Gleeson_.

It should have been a cold, rainy day. In his mind, it was the only thing that made sense, even if it was such a commonplace. Instead, it was sunny, warm, a little humid. This ritual was thought to give everyone closure, but it was also reopening old wounds. The Holmes' parents were still processing all the new information about their children, and made a conscious effort of being there —for the children their sons were, for the lost childhood of Victor, as a penance for Eurus. They stood, firm and silent, at the back of the small group of people present in the memorial, with Mycroft standing a couple of steps behind them. That would be another wound that would take time to heal: the surprise and hurt to learn that Eurus was still alive, but hidden from them; the confirmation of her involvement on Victor's disappearance; the certainty that locking her up was their only choice at the time. That quiet, useless rage to the late Rudy, for choosing the most convoluted route while dragging Mycroft into all that craziness. There was still a long conversation looming over them, waiting to happen.

Mrs. Trevor, standing in the front of the church, was still a strong presence. Sherlock had been recovering some of the memories of those long afternoons at the Trevor's, with homemade ginger snaps and milk, tales being read and silly songs being sung by that kind, wonderful woman. While his own mother was brilliant and loved to share her puzzles with both Myc and him, Mrs. Trevor always had a "sunny disposition", and her dimples had been inherited by Victor, as well as her squared face, and her fiery red hair. The William that was —the William that was not Sherlock, of course— had learned to be a just a child, to roam free, and to love fairy tales thanks to the warmth she showed to both of "her pirates". Her smile could light the world.

All that happiness and warmth was long gone, but her resolve, her inner strength, just shone harder. Her facial features had become more chiselled, as if suffering had sucked her up. By her side, supporting her, was a lanky redhead, with a long face that was almost a carbon copy of the late Mr. Trevor's features: translucent eyes, prominent cheekbones, straight nose, strong eyebrows —only younger, probably six or seven years younger than Sherlock… The baby that came to give some comfort to a broken family.

Both had been kind, but distant. They had accepted the condolences from all family and friends with grace and ease, but their reaction to the Holmes siblings was as uncomfortable as one could expect.

— To be honest… I'm grateful for all your efforts in speeding things up. And I'm also grateful for you being so concerned with solving this cold case. It is good to finally putting our dear Victor to rest… But… I'm pretty sure you can understand the mixed feelings we are having.

— I know, Mrs. Trevor. I just wanted to let you know how truly sorry I am about all this. Victor was lost to us all, but we are also too close to the source of all this pain to do nothing more than apologize and respect the distance —that was Mycroft, as usual, doing his best to keep it diplomatic, and being interrupted by Sherlock.

— Mrs. Trevor… I… I wanted to let you and…

— George.

— …to let you and George know that this was the mission of my whole life. All that I'm now, all I've done, is the memory of searching for Redbeard… for Victor. I wish that everything would have turned out differently… But Victor and you will forever be an essential part of who I am.

— Thanks, Billy. You were always such a sweet boy… It is good to know that some of the memory of my lovely boy lives within you —said Mrs. Trevor, kissing his cheek— Now, if you excuse us…

Listening to those words provided a strange sense of closure, but being called "Billy" after all those years proved more difficult than he had imagined. Again, memories that seemed lost for good, displaced to make room for "useful" information, flashed in front of him. He gave up being William, Billy, after leaving Musgrave and starting a new life in boarding school: "Billy is such a childish name… Can everybody please call me Sherlock now?". The Sherlock he was used to be was everything little William was not: cold, distant, heartless, calculating, even rude. That was what Mycroft meant by that cryptic phrase of being "the memory of Eurus". His parents were the sole recipients of the shadows of that William, as a carefully crafted act that helped him maintain distance and appear "saner", more mature… Even when they were vaguely aware of his 'health issues' caused by 'overworking' (that was the story Mycroft and him had crafted about his time in rehab).

That Sherlock was irretrievably lost, as much as his sister had been during the delirious game she prepared for them both. Right now, he was beginning to learn who this person, this William Sherlock Scott Holmes, was. His sister's game had found a way to bring him back, too. She loved that softer side of him, in her own twisted way… That was what she was searching for that night, when she presented herself as Faith and they walked together sending Mycroft a message, sharing fish and chips…

He found himself at the back of the church, after walking silently, lost in thought. Mycroft had gone back to the spot where their parents were standing, leaving him alone, after slightly squeezing his arm… "Affectionate Mycroft" was such a strange occurrence that he noticed the feeling in his arm for a minute after it happened. That distracted him from perceiving the two silhouettes that came to stand beside him, one on each side.

The first one to take his hand —the right one, softly, carefully, just sliding her fingers in between his— was Molly. She was aware of not clutching too hard, remembering that he had just smashed them a week and a half ago. As he turned his head to look at her, their eyes met for what felt as the first time. In a way, it was. He pressed her fingers a couple of times, just as a slight sign of affection. Molly discretely wiped the tears of her eyes, and leaned in Sherlock's shoulder.

— It is still not OK… But we are healing. And I guess we can work it out together —she said, almost whispering.

— Thank you, Molly… We will —he hummed, and then gave her a small kiss in the crown of her head.

John put his hand over his left shoulder. There was no need for words –just a half smile and a nod from his friend, the only one capable of closing the circle: saying goodbye to his childhood one and only sidekick, while finding himself standing between two of the people that care most for him in the whole world. He isn't used to that. The man he is now is still learning the meaning of both using his brain and his heart, and letting himself be hold by others in times of need. Maybe that was the lesson Eurus had reserved for him, after all.


End file.
